


losing you isn't an option

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22681765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Sometimes Geralt forgets Jaskier is human, but he's always reminded and not always in the best of ways.Or; Jaskier gets deathly ill.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 634





	losing you isn't an option

**Author's Note:**

> im actually v proud of how this came out!! but obvi warning for talk/depictions of sickness/illness
> 
> twitter: queermight  
> tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier had gotten injured _a lot_ –it was unavoidable, considering he traveled with a Witcher. He always healed up, though, whether on his own or with help from their resident sorceress (Yennefer, who very much hated being called that, which just made Jaskier want to call her it more).

Point being, he wasn’t scared of death.

Or, well, he _thought_ he wasn’t.

Until one day he started to feel… _off_. Geralt noticed immediately despite Jaskier doing a damned good job at hiding it.

“You don’t smell so good,” he said, frowning.

Jaskier smiled weakly, giving him a thumbs-up. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

“No,” Geralt said flatly. “I don’t mean –you smell _different_ , Jaskier.”

He shrugged and stumbled a bit. Geralt caught him before he fell, wrapping a sturdy arm around his waist. He looked at Jaskier with a worried crease between his eyebrows. Jaskier was warmed by his worry, really, but–

“I’m fine,” he said even as he leaned all his weight on Geralt. “Just… tired.”

Geralt was unimpressed. “We’re stopping for the day,” he said with an air of finality. He helped Jaskier over to a rock, where he sat and watched as Geralt pulled Roach over, tying her up.

“ _Geralt_ ,” he whined. “I’m fine, seriously. We can keep going.”

“I’d prefer if we didn’t,” he replied, finishing up and walking back over with the blanket he always carried with him. He placed it on the ground, smoothing it out, and forced Jaskier to lay down.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not _dying_ , Geralt.”

“Just stop fighting me and get some rest,” he said, joining him a few seconds later.

Jaskier rolled over, facing him, and sighed, tucking his hands under his head. He normally would’ve kept the argument going if only because he got a kick out of annoying Geralt but frankly he really _was_ tired. He knew he’d probably feel better in the morning, too, so he closed his eyes and dozed off to the feeling of Geralt’s hand stroking his hair.

-

Except Jaskier felt like _death_ in the morning. He scooted closer to the warm heat of Geralt’s body, groaning. His teeth chattered and he forced his lips together, tight, to stop it.

“Jaskier?” he heard Geralt ask, brushing a hand down his arm. “Are you okay?”

He shook his head, burrowing his face in the blanket. He was _freezing_. “Cold.”

“ _Cold?_ ” Geralt parroted in disbelief. “Jaskier,” he squeezed his arm. “It’s hot.”

He shrugged; he had no answer for Geralt. Geralt sat up and Jaskier pouted at the lost of warmth, reaching blindly for the Witcher’s arm. He found it and tugged insistently.

“Geralt,” he said. “Please.”

Geralt reached out and brushed some sweat-slick hair out of Jaskier’s face. “Jaskier,” he said, uncharacteristically soft. “Do you remember how I said you smelled _different_ yesterday?”

He sighed, not interested in the conversation. He was so tired, even after sleeping what was at least 12 hours. “What, Geralt?” he asked, impatient. “Just tell me and get back down he–”

“ _Death_ , Jaskier,” he interrupted, an odd tilt to his voice. “You smell like death.”

Jaskier’s fingers twitched against the warm skin of Geralt’s arm. He opened his eyes finally. “ _What?_ ” he asked, shuddering. He couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the news.

Geralt was staring at him with a pinched, tight expression.

“What do you mean?” he continued when Geralt didn’t answer. “Geralt,” he pleaded, squeezing his arm. “ _Answer me_.”

“You’re–you’re sick, Jaskier,” he said. “ _Fuck_ ,” he looked away and Jaskier’s hand fell away. He clutched at the blanket. “I should’ve noticed sooner; before we were miles away from the closest town.”

Jaskier stared at his hands, at a loss for words. "But… _how?_ ” he whispered. Then again no one ever really had an answer to that particular question, did they? There was never a reason; people just got sick, sometimes predictably, sometimes out of the blue.

“Don’t,” Geralt said gruffly. “You’ll be fine.”

Jaskier let out a humorless laugh. “Right, it’s not like I smell of _death_ or anyt–”

“Quiet,” he interrupted, soft but firm. Geralt stood up and folded the blanket over, tucking Jaskier in. “There should be a stream nearby; I’ll be right back.”

Jaskier clutched at the blanket again and watched, numbly, as Geralt walked off.

-

Geralt returned with a canister of water and a rag. He dipped the rag in the water and wrung it out with his hands before folding it in half, placing it gently on Jaskier’s sweat-slick forehead, brushing his hair out of the way.

“I–I don’t feel so good,” Jaskier said. He was worsening, and quickly. Geralt was ignoring it; Jaskier realized that he was in denial. “Geralt–” he shifted, smacking his lips. “You don’t… have to stay with me, you know?”

Geralt let out a huff of air. “Are you stupid?” he asked sharply. “I’m not leaving.”

Jaskier smiled; it took way too much energy. “You’re a good man, Geralt.”

“Shut up,” he chided, not unkindly. He took the rag off his forehead and dipped it again before placing it back on Jaskier’s forehead. “Save your energy.”

-

Three days later, Jaskier was puking almost every hour on the dot. He would sit up, with Geralt’s help, and empty his stomach of the small amounts of food he got down during the day (mostly just crackers and bread).

Geralt would rub his back, a silent comfort, never flinching even as Jaskier dry-heaved and groaned in pain.

Then, when he was finished, Geralt would gently clean his face with the rag.

Jaskier was finally accepting it: he was dying. He would be lucky if he lasted to the end of the week. There was no denying it or ignoring it. He needed Geralt to be prepared for it.

So he grabbed his hand, squeezing weakly. He had no strength left.

Geralt frowned, shaking his head. “ _Don’t_ ,” he said before Jaskier could even say anything.

“Geralt,” he croaked. Just speaking took too much energy, but he needed to do this, for both of them. “I–I probably–” he paused, taking a shaky breath. “I don’t think… I’m going to–”

He squeezed Jaskier’s hand, _hard_. “Don’t say it,” he interrupted gruffly.

“Geralt,” he said, closing his eyes. “Just, um–let me say this, okay?”

Geralt swallowed audibly. He squeezed his hand again, silent.

Jaskier half-smiled, weak and tired. He opened his eyes. “You’re–you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Geralt of Rivia,” he felt his eyes swelling with tears, “and… if I have to go, I’m glad you’re by my side.”

“You’re not dying, Jaskier,” he said but the words were flat, dishonest.

Jaskier closed his eyes again, a few tears escaping down his cheek. Geralt reached up and thumbed them away.

“We both know I am,” he whispered. “I just–I need to know you’ll be okay, Geralt.”

Geralt let out a weird sound and it took Jaskier opening his eyes to realize Geralt was forcing back tears, biting his bottom lip so hard Jaskier could see a bit of blood staining his upper teeth.

“I need to know–” Jaskier paused, taking a shaky breath “–that you won’t blame yourself for any of this.” He squeezed Geralt’s hand, mustering up the left of his strength. “Tell me you won’t.”

Geralt looked away.

“ _Geralt_ ,” he begged, “please. Don’t–don’t let me die worrying about this.”

Geralt growled, low in his throat, and looked back. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Jaskier!” he exploded but it wasn’t anger he heard, just devastation.

“Don’t say anything,” he whispered, realizing no words would be enough. Jaskier smiled sadly. “Just… get down here?” he asked. “I, um–I don’t want to… be alone when–” he cut himself off, biting back a sob.

He saw a tear slip down Geralt’s cheek. “Okay,” he said, quiet. “Okay.”

Geralt readjusted them, laying down on the blanket and gathering Jaskier in his arms. He rubbed the bard’s back in slow circles. It was silent, too silent. Jaskier sniffed. “Please talk,” he said. “I–I don’t care what you say. Just… _please_.”

Geralt nodded, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head, smoothing down his hair. “Do you want to hear about the first monster I ever killed?” he asked, and Jaskier wiggled closer.

“Please,” he said.

So Geralt started from the very beginning, telling him about every monster he ever hunted. He told him about the ones he killed, because they were dangerous, and the ones he helped, who were simply feared because of things they couldn’t help, like their appearances or unfounded rumors.

Jaskier slowly dozed off. He dreamed of Geralt, young, fighting his very first monster. He then dreamed of a much older Geralt, settled down with Yennefer, one who had moved on from the loss of his closest friend, let himself be happy again. Jaskier smiled in his sleep.

-

“Jaskier? Jaskier, fuck. Please don’t do this to me. _Jaskier_.”

He groaned, opening his eyes and squinted at the sky. Geralt sighed. “I’m not… dead,” he said, blinking. “What the _fuck?”_

“You’ve been out for two days,” Geralt said, gently brushing some sweat-slick hair out of his face. He leaned down and pressed his cheek to Jaskier’s forehead. “Your fever broke this morning but you wouldn’t–” he cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t wake up.”

Geralt pulled back and there was no denying the fear in his eyes.

“Am I… _not_ dying?” he asked, confused and scared of the truth.

Geralt swallowed thickly. “Your smell is improving,” he said. “But I can’t be sure.”

Jaskier blinked up at the sky. He might not be dying. _Fuck_. He let out a sudden laugh, wet. Geralt brushed his fingers through his hair, uncharacteristically soft as he gently combed knots out of his greasy hair.

“I was…” Geralt started, slow, “I was so fucking terrified, Jaskier.”

Jaskier frowned. “I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“ _Don’t_.” Geralt stared down at him, lips pressed together. “It’s not your fault. I just… I’m glad you seem to be doing better.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You should try to eat something, but we’re out of crackers and bread.”

Jaskier pouted, feeling enough like his usual self to be a brat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Too bad,” was his reply. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move. Not even an inch.”

Jaskier smiled for the briefest of seconds. “Yes, sir,” he said, and felt oddly satisfied by the scandalized look on Geralt’s face.

-

Over the next two days, he was feeling better. He could even sit up on his own. Geralt brought his lute over and let him play it. He cried, realizing how much he would’ve missed this.

“I’m really–” he said through sobs “–glad I’m not dead.”

Geralt let out a laugh that surprised even himself, quickly clearing his throat. He scooted over and wrapped an arm around Jaskier. “I’m glad, too,” he said. “I–I know you said not to blame myself, Jaskier, but…”

Jaskier turned toward him, their faces inches apart. “I’m okay,” he whispered.

Geralt nodded, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re right,” he said, rough, and Jaskier knew he was checking for a fever despite the fact he hadn’t had one in three days. “That’s all that matters.”

“Thank you, Geralt,” he said, “for everything.”

Geralt pulled back, eyes soft in a way Jaskier rarely saw, especially aimed at him. He reached up and brushed the back of his knuckles against Jaskier’s cheek, over the stubble that had grown out. Jaskier knew he’d be shaving that soon; it was top of his list. “Just don’t ever scare me like that again,” he said gruffly, like Jaskier had any say in the matter.

But he smiled anyway, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, okay.”


End file.
